


0-0

by badteeth



Category: Stranger Things RPF
Genre: Almost Caught, Alternate Universe - High School, Comeplay, Face Slapping, Light Bondage, M/M, Safe Stupid and Consensual, Sexual Roleplay, Topping from the Bottom, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 07:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badteeth/pseuds/badteeth
Summary: "The origin of the use of 'love' for zero is also disputed. The most likely explanation is that it derives from the French expression for 'the egg' (l'œuf) because an egg looks like the number zero. Another theory on the origins of the use of 'love' comes from the notion that, at the start of any match, when scores are at zero, players still have 'love for each other.'"— Wikipedia





	0-0

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: This is perhaps even more fake than RPF usually is (which is extremely fake to begin with). I saw [these photos](https://mogilny.tumblr.com/post/186475732509/dacre-is-looking-pristine-mystifying-and-perfect) and ran with the Vibe. That is my only explanation. 
> 
> It doesn't come up, but both characters are seventeen. This fic is not a to-do guide for kink.

The first time Dacre saw Joe—and he’d hate himself for it later, but the first time Dacre saw Joe—he’d hated Joe with a wave of contempt that consumed the entire world. Like, of course this kid—Dacre hadn’t known his name yet, even—thought he could just waltz out to tennis tryouts dressed like a parody pulled out of a Target magazine right down to the fuzzy white sweatband holding back long dark hair, make the team, and get out of PE for the semester in exchange for taking up a reserve spot in a month-long season.

The fact of the matter, though, was that Stockbridge Academy’s tennis team sucked, so this clown probably would make the team, right next to Dacre, who worked so fucking hard to be the kind of man who deserved to step out onto the court and not get laughed off of it.

Dacre didn’t say anything. He tended not to, whenever he felt something too strongly and it got all tangled in his throat. But when Coach David set the kid across from Dacre for singles and gives him the start, the tension still fizzled in his arms, his legs.

They shook hands. Introduced themselves.  _ “Dacre?” _ Joe said, eyebrows rising. Dacre nodded once, then took his position. Joe, at least, didn’t need to be told where or how to stand. 

Dacre nodded to himself, inhaled, exhaled. Focused on yellow fuzz. Tossed the ball up, waited, then felt his feet leave the ground as his shoulder and wrist rotated, firing off a  _ mean  _ serve, just because he can, because he wants everyone to know  _ he  _ can— 

Joe jerked quick in response and hit a cross-court angled shot Dacre was too stunned to counter.

“Love-fifteen,” Coach David said, sounding impressed, and Dacre had a moment to be annoyed by that before Joe’s laugh caught his attention.

“What a fucking  _ bomb, _ buddy, oh my god,” Joe said, and Dacre easily could have found a way to take it the wrong way and stay angry, but Joe’s face radiated a sort of honesty that toppled Dacre over.

His voice felt strained as he responded, “Nice return.”

There were a lot of things Dacre hadn’t wanted for his life: didn’t want his mum to remarry, didn’t want to follow his new stepdad into Suburbia, USA, increasingly didn’t want anyone to be able to  _ see  _ him, and he definitely didn’t want Joe Keery on his tennis team. 

He was wrong about a few things, as it turned out.

* * *

Dacre and Joe see each other more than is strictly necessary during the school day, given them being a year apart. Being a teacher’s son apparently didn’t imbue Joe with a deep appreciation for learning, and Dacre—well, by now, Dacre knows that getting bought into Stockbridge and falling short of “championing excellence in academics” aren’t exactly unique sins, so he doesn’t feel particularly bad for spending most of sixth period on smoko passing a dab pen back and forth like the pair of dickheads they are. 

It’s a kind of shitty high that mostly just makes Dacre’s eyes sticky, but it’ll be gone by the time he has to drive them home. Especially now, apparently.

“I know, I know, but everyone’s putting in extra hours before the show, and it’s not like they can do it all without  _ me…” _ Joe is saying, arms making wide gestures. They’re on the main building’s roof, sat on their folded-up uniform jackets. It’s still cool enough that it might have been nice to wear them but the sun feels nice, too. Dacre can’t get angry about Joe’s dedication, is pretty much the opposite, actually, but—

“Yeah, mate, of course not,” Dacre responds. “Are you still coming to the gala tonight?”

Joe’s arms freeze, and he pulls himself into something like a serious posture. As close as he ever gets. “Yeah, of course I am. I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Right,” Dacre responds, and a nervous shiver eases before he even fully realises it. “You have a suit?”

“Of course!”

“Different from the one you wore at—”

“That was a joke suit,” Joe says, maybe more patient than Dacre deserves. “I have a real one. I mean, it’s not big bikkies but—”

“Please stop,” Dacre interrupts as he leans in for a hug, hiding in Joe’s hair long enough to press a kiss right below his ear, staying there because he likes the feel and smell of him. “Okay. I’ll see you tonight. Proud of you.”

Joe laughs it off, but he squeezes Dacre back for an extra minute, too.

  
  


It’s near-sunset by the time Dacre pulls to a stop outside Joe’s family’s house. The golden hour, one of those really nice ones that cut through everything and forces you to appreciate the natural world for the gift it is. Usually, Dacre does his best to suppress any such softness within himself, but he’s alone now, so he lets himself bask.

He’s still feeling appreciative when Joe walks out, and—

The front door jiggles then swings open as Joe steps out. He wasn’t kidding about the suit. In the light, Dacre feels like he’s freefalling into some sort of movie, a bloom in his chest except nothing as metaphorical, just. Joe, who opens the passenger side door of Dacre’s car, smiling, running a hand through his ridiculous suit as he says, “Hey. Do I like alright?”

“Uh,” Dacre responds. It takes a couple flickering seconds for his mind to switch back online. “Yeah. Great. You look great.”

“Guess you were exaggerating about the whole mandatory black-tie thing,” Joe says, teasing, as reaches over and slides a hand into the wide neck of Dacre’s shirt, squeezing at his chest in a way that’s mostly joking but feels molten.

Dacre says, “Well. This suit did actually cost big bikkies,” and Joe laughs in a hard snort.

* * *

The gala is an entire fucking disaster. Unsurprising, given his stepfather’s company, but still so completely embarrassing and enraging,  _ especially  _ in front of Joe— 

A hand squeezes at his thigh. “Hey,” Joe says, and Dacre glances at him, can barely take the look on his face, so he turns his focus back onto the road.

“Sorry,” Dacre grits out.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Joe responds. He turns down the radio volume before he continues, “It’s not like I expected— I went for you, Dacre. That’s it.”

Dacre wishes he could crank the music back up until the bass matched the angry throbbing in his chest. He, at least, makes an active effort to not be an uncontrollable asshole at every opportunity, so he breathes with a forced evenness until he can say, “That doesn’t mean… It didn’t have to be like that. It could have been a nice fucking night, and instead, we got a right showing of every ass in the tri-county area.”

John makes a series of awkward noises like sympathy is keeping him from outright laughing. He doesn’t respond with words but rubs Dacre’s thigh again soothingly—almost soothingly—like a prompt to continue. Except Dacre doesn’t want to stay angry, kind of hates the idea, especially when it’s just him and Joe and his car. He knows, really, that nothing big had happened tonight. He’ll wake up tomorrow and nothing will have changed, nothing  _ will  _ change, and as infuriating as that is, there’s a comfort to it, too.

So Dacre exhales hard, rubs hard at his eyes, and says, “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“... Do you  _ want  _ to drive me home?”

Dacre raises an elbow. “Mum and Richard probably aren’t going to be home until late, if ever. We could hang out. Watch a movie or something.”

“Or something,” Joe echoes. “Yeah, sure.”

  
  
  


Their new house is ridiculous. It’s not like they were ever really  _ struggling  _ in Australia, or in Canada after everything, but the second Richard entered the picture, it was like they were in a race to become the worst exaggeration of an American family imaginable. Houses just humble enough to avoid being called mansions, gated communities, dead-quiet streets. How easy it can be to just lean in. 

Anyway, they don’t make it to the home theatre. Joe stops Dacre barely past the entryway with a hand on his forearm. He leans against an empty patch of wall—not hard, minimalism is in, after all—and says, “You seemed pretty upset in the car.”

“Oh, yeah, no, no worries, just happy it’s over—”

“Dacre,” Joe interrupts with a laugh. “No one’s home. Were you  _ mad  _ earlier?”

“Oh.  _ Oh.” _ Dacre blinks hard a few times and feels like a parody of a teenager for how quickly everything rearranges in him. He raises his free hand up and wraps his fingers around the side of Joe’s throat, gentle, thumb petting at the gentle slope of his jaw. “I… can’t believe you embarrassed me like that?”

“Sure,” Joe says. He’s not smiling anymore but his eyes look sure, and that’s enough for Dacre.

He pushes Joe back hard enough to make it echo through the room and switches his grip to tighten around the front of Joe’s neck until he gasps. Joe’s just a bit taller than Dacre, and the hazy look that settles over his eyes just makes it sweeter as he gazes back at him.

“Don’t fucking laugh,” Dacre hisses. It’s not a real anger that unfurls in him when they get the chance to do this—had felt like a monster the first few times, anyway—but there’s a rich darkness to it that feels good to let go of. The character helped a bit, too. “I trusted you and you couldn’t go four hours without making an ass out of yourself. Out of both of us. Fucking pathetic, is what you are.”

Joe shivers, and that’s as thrilling as anything. Dacre squeezes a little tighter, just for a second, as Joe responds, “Sorry.”

“Oh, that sounded sincere,” Dacre says with a sneer. He feels electric and overheated, and Joe’s mouth feels the same when he can’t help but lean in, bite then lick at his spit-wet bottom lip.

A hot minute later, Joe breaks off to gasp, “You’re right, I’m the worst. Maybe you should do something about it.”

The slap isn’t quite hard enough to echo but the sound still feels so big in Dacre’s ears as he watches Joe wince, his eyes going hazy. Dacre asks, “You sure you can take it?”

Joe groans out another noise, not quite agreeable but Dacre knows by now that Joe will still let him do whatever.  _ Wants  _ him to. 

It’s fucking hot.

They make it do Dacre’s bedroom. Joe’s suit lay carefully across his desk chair or flat out on the floor. He doesn’t really start squirming until both of his arms are spread out, caught in the tight loops of Dacre’s ties. The tension might ruin them, but the image of it—the contrast between Joe’s hands and their school colours, blood-flushed against silk twill—more than makes up for it. Besides, they make the best knots of everything they could find in the house.

“Come on, buddy, it wasn’t that serious,” Joe pleads. “This is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous is not knowing how to fucking act when you’re in halfway decent company. Should have just left you at the country club,” Dacre says. He brings a hand to Joe’s face, slaps him again, then thumbs at Joe’s mouth. His jaw loosens easy, letting Dacre slide in and press at his teeth, pet his tongue. There’s still a fight in his eyes when Dacre continues, “Slut like you probably would’ve found a way home easy enough.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Joe gargles around his thumb, so Dacre shoves two more fingers into Joe’s mouth until he gags for real. It’s a harsh, wet sound, and Joe squirms when Dacre doesn’t let up right away, but there’s nowhere to go with Dacre pinning down his torso and his arms bound up. 

“You’re so fucking mouthy for being the one who followed  _ me  _ home,” Dacre says. “Begged for my attention all night, and now that you have it, you’re acting like a little bitch. Gotta say, Joe, I’m getting real sick of your shit.

“Not a fucking word,” Dacre warns as he shifts his weight off of Joe and stands. 

“Or what?” Joe says, because of course he does, his voice rough and face like  _ I dare you.  _ Dacre feels so many degrees of heat in him he doesn’t know what to do with them all—he wants to jump back into bed, kiss Joe all night, pet his hair, choke him until he can’t talk back anymore.

Instead, he digs out a couple pieces of clothes and a bottle of organic aloe vera gel that he’d stolen from his mom months ago, and throws them both at Joe’s side.

Joe is already talking as Dacre clambers back on top. “What are you doing with— oh. Ew. No.  _ No.” _

“It’s fresh out of the package,” Dacre says, balling the briefs up in his hands. He can just use the bandana, but he’s wanted to gag Joe like this for forever. Despite where his actual tongue has been, Joe’s always been reluctant, even fresh out of the wash. But now, Dacre can tell when the window of acceptance opens, and he doesn’t hesitate to shove the wadded up cotton into Joe’s mouth. The triumph probably shows in his voice when he says, “There, maybe you can behave now that I’m not giving you the chance.”

Joe still rolls his eyes, because of course he does—it’s how they work, poking and pulling at each other. His gaze still gets hazy and hot as he watches Dacre strip out of his few remaining layers and tosses them to the side, hard as Dacre wraps a hand around himself and jerks slow.

“Fuck,” Dacre sighs. “Might still find a use for you yet, eh, Joey?”

Joe makes a disagreeing noise, but all he can do is flare his nostrils as his chest rises and falls while Dacre pops the cap off of the aloe and squeezes some onto his fingers. He reaches behind himself and slides a finger into himself, then two. The angle is awkward and Dacre always rushes warming himself up, but it’s just as rewarding to have Joe beneath him and  _ wanting,  _ his hands moving restlessly against Dacre’s bedposts _ . _

“You want your dick in me? Is that why you’ve been acting up all night? Pulling pigtails?” Another noise. “That’s alright. You’re lucky I’m as hard up as I am tonight, otherwise I really would have let the other guys figure out what to do with you.”

Dacre pulls his fingers back and rebalances himself over Joe. He pours more of the makeshift lube onto Joe’s fiery flushed cock and spreads it around, the cool contrast making Joe jerk, his moan muffled.

It takes effort to work Joe into himself—maybe Dacre was more than a little impatient with the prep—but it’s _ good, _ too. They hardly ever have enough privacy to do this, and Dacre hadn’t been exaggerating how badly he wanted this, either. He rolls his hips experimentally and feels Joe shift beneath him, trying to press upward.

“Like having your dick in me?” Dacre asks, getting another moan in response. “Tell me before you come, alright?”

Joe says something like _I’m _**_gagged_** but it comes out as _uh uhhhhhh, _and Dacre smiles.

The truth is, Dacre would know anyway. Even with their limited opportunities, he obsesses over every little thing that he can extract out of Joe, writes poetry about the blond highlights and pink shoulders he picks up through the summer in a black leather diary he’d filled the few pages of with homework notes and tennis scores, jerks off to the grunting gasps he lets out as he gets close, does both for the roll of his body beneath Dacre, helpless and beautiful.

He can tell Joe isn’t paying that much attention by the end, his head thrown back as his arms jerk subconsciously, but Dacre is, squinting through his own orgasm as it stripes Joe’s stomach, enough that he still manages to roll off completely just as Joe starts.

Joe practically screams with it, thrashing before his whole body goes taut except for his jerking dick that’s still drooling come. Dacre reaches out a hand to mix it with his own, paint it up Joe’s gasping chest.

It goes quiet, except for both of them trying to catch their breath. Dacre knows Joe’s still hot for it, cock still so hard it’s purple, but he lets himself bask in the feel of it all, relaxed and satisfied.

That is, until the sound of his front door being slammed echoes up upstairs.

Dacre jerks upright with a hand still on Joe’s chest. He strains to listen, because surely he misheard, the house is old enough to make weird noises sometimes—

But, no, those are definitely the sounds of somebody getting home. Joe must realize around the same time, because he goes completely tense. He makes a sharp noise and Dacre scrambles.

The second Dacre pulls the briefs out of Joe’s mouth and tosses them to the other side of the room, Joe hisses,  _ “Untie me!” _

“I’m working on it!” Dacre whispers back, just as frantic. He wipes his messy had on the side of his sheets and hates himself for it, but turns back to the knots holding Joe in place. Dacre  _ knows  _ these knots, uses them because they’re supposed to be easy to undo and get out of, but surprise has practically erased his brain with panic quickly rising up alongside it. He has scissors somewhere in his desk drawers, but would looking for them actually be quicker? Does he hate these ties that much? Are the sounds getting  _ closer? _

Dacre gets one hand free and shoves the remains further down the post, out of sight, while Joe frees the other one. Someone is  _ definitely  _ in the hall. Joe pulls Dacre down in front of in—Joe, who is definitely still hard, and that almost makes Dacre laugh.

“Be quiet,” Joe hisses into his neck, and almost simultaneously, there’s a knock on the door.

It’s Dacre’s mom. Her voice is just loud enough to carry into the room. “Dacre, honey? Are you home?”

Dacre can’t remember if the door is locked or not. Probably not. There’s a fifty/fifty chance she tries to come in whatever he does or does not say—which, what would that even mean? Somewhere along the line, it got really, really blurry what his mom does or does not know or care to remember about Dacre.

“Yeah,” Dacre says with his best tired voice. “I’m in bed.”

“Early night for you,” she responds, although it almost sounds like a question.

Dacre can only think to respond, “... ‘m tired.”

“Oh. Well. Just wanted to let you know that I was home. Richard got to talking to some of the other execs, and you know how that goes— well. I was thinking of watching a movie or something.” A pause. Another statement-question. “Goodnight?”

“G’night, Mum.”

And then Dacre could hear her retreat back down the stairs. Now it’s Joe’s turn to laugh, forehead between Dacre’s shoulder blades until Dacre turns around. He tries shushing him, but his own face hurts from holding it in.

“You know,” Joe says, “I really think you should take my spot in the theatre club next year. They’re going to need a new leading man.”

“Stop it.” It sobers Dacre up a little, even as he tries to shake it off. Feels unreal that they’re going into their last quarter together, that Joe is leaving by the end of summer. Dacre doesn’t like thinking about it. “I don’t think they let people climb the ranks that fast anyway. Big shoes to fill and all that.”

Joe hums and leans in to kiss Dacre again slow and easy. “Hm. But you’re  _ good, _ Dacre. And you should probably stop trying to act like you’re too serious a student to bother with the arts before you try majoring in engineering or some bullshit like that.”

Dacre rolls closer and puts a hand on Joe’s ribs, just to feel them rise and fall. “Lots of shit you can do with an engineering degree. You want me to jerk you off?”

“Don’t try and distract me, I’m dropping sage advice here! But, yes, please.”

He’s still hard from before, which isn’t a surprise. The interruption had been horrifying in potential but thrilling on the edge, and it doesn’t take much more than a quick rhythm and some whispered words for Joe to shoot again into Dacre’s hand.

He wipes it off on his already-ruined sheets, then turns back to Joe. Even without being the one who just came, these whole scenes always seem to knock it out of Dacre, and he can feel himself fading fast pressed up against Joe’s chest.

Dacre forces his eyes open again to the movement of Joe sliding back into bed. He slurs, “Y’alright? Need water? I can—”

“Nah, I’m good, relax,” Joe says, pushing Dacre back onto the bed. It’s a king but they’re pressed together almost obnoxiously, arms and legs knotted. Dacre’s almost out again when Joe presses a kiss to Dacre’s forehead and says, “You can make it up for me with a real big brekkie tomorrow.”

Dacre groans, flops a hand around until it’s in Joe’s general face area, and attempts to smother him, but Dacre probably still falls asleep first.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, I'm going to go start Stranger Things now. Yes, now, in September of 2019. 
> 
> [tumblr](http://mogilny.tumblr.com) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/post_madonna)


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